


rest my chemistry

by Anonymous



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fix-It, M/M, No Irish Need Apply in passing, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tender lads just need to be tender, author is Irish so I’m allowed to wallow in my Francis Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There are a dozen reasons why he will never be Captain Sir Francis Crozier.A dozen reasons at least, and he deserves maybe half of them. There’s a comfort in how little the world has changed for all that it has changed.“Nothing about this was fair, from the start.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 5
Kudos: 77
Collections: Anonymous





	rest my chemistry

There are a dozen reasons why he will never be Captain Sir Francis Crozier. 

A dozen reasons at least, and he deserves maybe half of them. There’s a comfort in how little the world has changed for all that it has changed.

“I will refuse it.” James says, looking from his reflection to Francis, pushes his hands away as stiff fingers fiddle with his ascot. 

“Nonsense,” and Francis does not bother to temper the brogue that curls his consonants now. He has nothing left to lose and nothing he cares to prove. 

“It’s not fair—“

“Nothing about any of this was fair from the start.” Francis gently slaps the back of James’ hands and reties the knot in the ascot. “And all the same, imagine how they would feel if they  _ knew. _ ” Punctuates the last with a sharp quirk of his eyebrow and James barks out a laugh that brings a smile to Francis’ face. “That itself is infinitely more pleasing to me than any title.”

James takes his hands, holds them gently in his own and Francis will never not marvel at how  _ warm _ James is now. 

_ Small blessings, _ he thinks, wonders if perhaps he should light a candle for Saint Anthony and knows that he will not. When James smiles at him again, the light catches on the gold teeth in that smile and Francis knows that miracles are nothing more than fairy stories you tell children so they don’t hate you for bringing them into this world.

“You’re brooding.”

Francis scoffs, “Am not.”

“You are. You have that faraway look in your eye you get when you’re angry at the world and I won’t let you at the whiskey to forget why you’re supposed to be angry.”

“Alright,  _ Sir James. _ ”

James considers, taps his chin, “It has a nice ring to it.”

“Get gone, else you’ll be late.”

“Let them wait for me,” James says, crowds into Francis’ space and Francis forgets why he was supposed to be annoyed. 

The kiss is ungentlemanly, not something befitting one of Her Majesty’s  _ knights _ , filthy and rushed and blurring the decade and a half between them. When Francis finds the strength to push him away with a gentle  _ you’ll be late, fool,  _ James merely laughs again, steals another (chaste) kiss, and departs. 

Returns for his coat, and departs again, and Francis can only laugh. 

James is gone for the day, and for all he knew he would not have time with him this evening, Francis misses him all the same. 

Thomas stops by because  _ of course he does _ , throws his coat at Francis and hobbles into the flat in search of alcohol. “So, you didn’t go with him?”

“No, I—“

“You should have, for support. He’s a pup and you’ve thrown him to wolves.”

Francis levels him with a look, and Thomas laughs loud enough that the landlady will likely want to have Words with him about the noise. “If you think James can not handle himself ‘round aristocracy—“

“I canny tell you how much joy it brings me to hear you finally say ‘is name without spittin’ it.” Thomas says, claps him hard on the shoulder and makes his way towards their small, sparse dining room. “Whiskey, but you’re only getting a half, y’ lush.”

“Drink mine for me.” Francis says, drops the coat over a chair, knowing James will flit past and hang it up when he returns. 

“Ah, no, you’re celebrating your man.” There are two glasses, and true to his word, Thomas pours a finger for Francis and then drinks straight from the bottle for himself. “Is this the one I gave you last year?”

“It is.”

Thomas doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, just hands the glass over and they raise a toast,  _ to Sir James. _

They talk a while. Thomas pours him another and they don’t mention the way he measures it quietly as he does. Thomas takes out his pipe and Francis takes a few puffs. They talk about anything, everything, except the Ice. A glass worth of warm whiskey has him agreeing to a cheap, greasy dinner at the pub and the chance to not be alone. 

They laugh over pork pies at the stories that James will surely be yelling at dinner, put on the spot and told to dance like a performing monkey. Thomas gives him another look as if to say  _ and y’ let him go alone  _ but Francis steals a sip of his ale to say  _ he has them around his finger, as it should be. _

All the things that used to annoy him, used to drive him to drink, have all become little endearing things that James —  _ his James —  _ does to make him smile and laugh. 

Of all the stories about the Ice, James will bring up the good times, will draw them out gently until it seems like a coming of age story for all of them. It feels like a lie, when he’s awake late into the night and listening to the even sounds of James’ snores, like every decision made was a mistake for all that they survived. For all that they lost, though, Francis feels each piece acutely, feels them rest on his shoulders heavy and sure like epaulets, a shame he carries and a shame that keeps that coveted  _ Sir  _ from his name. 

When his eyes meet Lady Jane’s across a dinner table, he wants to plead with her  _ I tried, I swear to you I tried  _ and knows that she would only pat his hand gently and tell him  _ I know, I know.  _

So here he is, digging a fork into a pork pie and nursing a watered down ale while Thomas tells him stories about the missus, while he laughs and nods and gasps at all the right places. Thomas’ cane rests against the table and he revisits that tally mark in his long list of all the things he’s done wrong. And Thomas, clever bastard he is, follows his line of sight and half-snarls at it, moves the cane out of his sight. 

“For God’s sake Francis, we were grown men, we made our own decisions.”

It doesn’t make him feel any better, but he nods all the same. Fat clings to the edge of the crust, shining even in the dim light and brings back memories that usually haunt him when he’s trying to fall asleep. 

_ All the things we did to survive. _

“None of that now.” Thomas says, gently, in a way that is entirely like him and not like him at all, a Thomas Blanky that only few have seen. It takes Francis a moment to realize he’s spoken out loud, and he fumbles for his pocket watch, wonders when James will be home. 

It’s still early evening, but Francis wants to be anywhere but here. They pay their tab, they leave, and no one troubles them on the long, slow walk home. It’s a companionable silence, and when Francis realizes he’s been listening for the sounds of boots against ice and stone, the coughs and wheezing of men dragging what little humanity they still have left, Thomas’ hand is a vice on his elbow dragging him towards the rented half of the home he and James have made. 

Safe inside, boots up on the end table in front of the fire, they pass the time talking about the Ice. 

It’s like scratching open a scab to watch it bleed, reliving every terrible step of it and if Francis takes a drink of the whiskey that Thomas poured for himself, neither one of them say anything. 

The sun has long set when they hear the key in the lock, and Francis is on his feet in a heartbeat, swaying as if he might fall, and Thomas leans against his cane to say his goodbyes before James is a foot in the door. 

“Thank you.” Francis says quietly, and Thomas waves him away, claps his shoulder one last time. 

“I’m gonna head on before things turn to summat I should pay to see. Goodnight, Frank.” Thomas says his congratulations at the door, shakes James’ hand and politely turns down a nightcap. And then it is James in the foyer, Francis in the threshold, and a world between them. They take a step towards each other at the same time, stop at the same time and laugh. 

Laughter comes so easily that it feels like a sin, and yet Francis’ hands want nothing more than to touch, to hold, to feel the other man alive against his skin. 

“How was it?”

“Pretentious.” And James falls against him. Buried his face in the crook of his neck as his arms settle around Francis’ waist and they simply breathe each other for several long, slow moments.

Francis breaks first. “So, everything you are used to?”

James smacks at his chest lightly, grins, and the lamplight catches on those gold teeth again, one-two-three-four pieces of evidence that James is here and alive and warm and firm against him. “I wish you were there, what a scandal we would have made.”

“You deserved this night.” Francis says, voice thick with half a dozen emotions, the half dozen reasons why he would never accept the  _ Sir  _ before his name, even if it were offered. “I hope you had a time of it.”

“I still would have rathered you at my side.” James’ hands are wandering now, pretending at some disinterested path but Francis knows that when James wants something, James will get that something.

_ I want to survive this expedition, Francis _ .

He pulls James tight against him until he can feel his heart thrumming wildly against his own chest, even through the layers of clothes between them, and their kiss is as filthy as their parting. 

“Bed?” James says, pulling away with a huff of air against Francis’ mouth.

“Bed.” Francis says, but what he means is  _ anything, anything for you, anything you ever want or ask.  _

James threads his fingers between Francis’ own and tugs, gently, walks backwards so that he can keep his gaze, can hold his eyes to answer,  _ you, only you, only us, this is all I want.  _


End file.
